


Two Shots

by PrinceSircastic



Category: Wallander (UK TV)
Genre: Gen, because the episode was severely lacking in Magnus feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2012-07-05
Packaged: 2017-11-09 05:39:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceSircastic/pseuds/PrinceSircastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two shots rang out, echoing in his mind, and Magnus sat bolt upright in bed. A nightmare, again - and here came the nausea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Shots

**Author's Note:**

> I felt there should have been some reflection on how the events of One Step Behind affected Magnus. It's my headcanon that it was the first time he'd used his weapon, not just used his weapon to kill (we've seen him draw it, but never fire it until then), and honestly Kurt didn't even thank him for saving their lives. This isn't particularly long cause it was just me getting some feels out.
> 
> So yeah, spoilers for One Step Behind.

Two shots rang out, echoing in his mind, and Magnus sat bolt upright in bed. Cold sweat clung to his skin, and his breath came in ragged pants. With shaking hands he peeled the sheets from his sweat-soaked body and stumbled out of bed, staggering into the bathroom to collapse in front of the toilet just in time – with a painful heave, he threw up, his whole body trembling with the effort, and from the memory of the nightmare. 

It had been two days since he’d had to shoot a man dead to stop Kurt and Linda from suffering the same fate, and he couldn’t shake the memory from his mind. His hands trembled every time he thought back to that day, to that moment, and even the slightest split-second thought would make him nauseous. He leant on the seat of the toilet, not trusting himself to stand up, but he did reach up with one hand to flush – the stench of vomit would only serve to make him throw up again, and he’d rather he didn’t. 

It was the first time he’d had to use his weapon. He’d been trained, of course, and he knew how to handle one. He knew when to shoot to stun or wound, and when to shoot to kill. He’d pulled his gun a number of times already, but he’d never needed to use it. 

Not until Ake. 

He could still remember every second as if he were living it again – and he did live it again, every night so far, in his dreams. He remembered the weight of the gun in his hand, remembered the pounding of his heart in his chest as he turned into the doorway, shouting for Kurt to get down. He remembered the pause – very short – before he’d forced his finger to squeeze the trigger. He remembered the first shot, and the second. He remembered Ake falling, blood spurting from the gunshot wounds, and slumping on the ground. He remembered the fear pulsing through him, the tremble in his hands as he slowly lowered the gun. His blood had run cold and he had tried to swallow the bile in his throat, but it was overwhelming. He’d barely registered the look Kurt had given him before he was stumbling backwards, needing to get outside, needing to get away. He’d gotten two steps out of the door before the contents of his stomach had emptied out onto the path outside. 

When the others had arrived, he’d staggered away from the house, the gun falling from his hand as he fell to his hands and knees, heaving again and struggling to keep himself under control. He’d used his weapon – shot to kill. He’d killed a man. Jesus Christ, he’d  _killed_  a man! 

Trembling still, fresh cold sweat breaking out over his skin, Magnus pushed himself up away from the toilet and stood shakily in front of the mirror, reaching for the cord to turn the light on. He winced at the sudden insult to his eyes, and groaned when he saw the state of himself in the mirror. He was pale, sickeningly pale, his hair tousled madly from his restless sleep. He turned on the taps and splashed water over his face, trying to force his mind from the events of that day – and it worked. 

At least until he started crying.

He’d believed it to be droplets of water still coursing down his face, but when he felt the hot sting against his cool cheeks he knew otherwise. He sank down to sit on the edge of his bathtub, and dropped his face into his hands as his cries became louder, shoulders shaking. He dropped down onto the bathroom floor again, pulling his knees up to his chest as he sobbed harder, and louder, his body still trembling almost violently. 

He’d given his colleagues a smile and assured them he was fine, and he’d attended Svedburg’s funeral with no problem. His decline of Kurt’s offer for a drink had been passed off as having other plans, but really he’d only hurried home to curl up in bed and hide. He’d been given a pat on the back by one or two of them, and Kurt had flashed him a thankful smile, but no one had spoken about what happened, and he was glad of that. The less people talked, the sooner he could try to forget it. 

But he’d never forget it. 

He sat on the bathroom floor, back pressed hard against the side of the bath, sobs racking his body mercilessly, hot tears streaming down his cheeks endlessly, for hours. He wasn’t even aware of how long he’d sat there until morning light crept in through the window, and he began to register stiffness in his joints. 

He pulled himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the sink as he stared hard at himself in the mirror. Hell, he looked like  _shit_. He splashed water on his face for a second time, and tried to clean himself up, but he knew it’d take more than that. A quick, hot shower later and he was already feeling less shaky and had no obvious inclinations to throw up, so he considered that a bonus. As he dressed, he heard himself call out to Kurt in his head, heard the shots that followed. The trip to the station was awful. Every slight sudden sound turned into a gunshot, and all he could see was Ake falling backwards. All he could see was the blood. 

By the time he reached the station, he was pale and nauseous once more, and his hands trembled in his coat pockets. He sat at his desk with shoulders hunched; trying to block out the world, trying to focus on the menial task he’d been given. But then a hand was on his shoulder and Kurt was talking to him, and he was needed to go out on fieldwork. 

With shaking hands, he lifted his gun and slotted it into the holster on his hip, and hoped to god he wouldn’t have to draw it. 

He didn’t think he could handle it.


End file.
